


Episode 1: Kneeling in the Sand

by HogwartsToAlexandria



Series: Marie's Events and Bang Fics [13]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Aftercare, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Awesome James "Rhodey" Rhodes, BDSM Scene, Caretaking, Chance Meetings, Childhood Friends, Childhood Sweethearts, Dom James "Rhodey" Rhodes, Forehead Touching, Happy Ending, Hopeful Ending, Hurt Steve Rogers, Kneeling, M/M, Mental Restraints, Non-Sexual Submission, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Past Bad BDSM Practices, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective James "Rhodey" Rhodes, Recovery, Safe Sane and Consensual, Scratching, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Steve Rogers Has Issues, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Sub Drop, Sub Steve Rogers, Subdrop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:54:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23121322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HogwartsToAlexandria/pseuds/HogwartsToAlexandria
Summary: A decade has passed since Jim had to watch his best friend leave the neighborhood, had to let go of his hand even as he kept running behind Sarah Rogers' car, full of hope and the promises they'd made to each other that this wasn't the end. Today, Jim is a retired Air Force Colonel, wounded in his last flight but still active for the VA and its civil missions.One of these missions is to make sure subs without a home are cared for, as hypocritical as that sounds in a society where they're not allowed to buy a house for themselves.Jim thought he was prepared for anything, had seen everything, could not be surprised by a routine call to one of New York's shelters, and yet...And yet Steve Rogers living in one of said shelters certainly threw him.
Relationships: James "Rhodey" Rhodes/Steve Rogers
Series: Marie's Events and Bang Fics [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1649737
Comments: 10
Kudos: 49
Collections: Marvel Rare Pair Bang 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bill_Longbow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bill_Longbow/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Art Post](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/566686) by thewaythatwerust. 



> Hey! Here is Thewaythatwerust (who you can find [here](http://thewaythatwerust.tumblr.com)!) and I's collab! You'll find the amazing banner and poster she made right underneath this little note.
> 
> The story was cheered and beta'd by the relentless Betheflame and Bill_Longbow (who's the sole responsible for my obsession with this ship btw) and I want to thank you guys so much ❤
> 
> Hope you'll enjoy the read!

****

**~*~*~*~*~*~**

****

**~*~*~**

**Jim**

Getting home after a shift at the VA is supposed to feel like walking into a warm bath, finally being able to rest and all that. It doesn't. Not this time, it hasn't in a while. 

Jim met Steve again just a bit over two weeks ago and given the state of subs' statuses in society lately, it didn't take long for them to come to the conclusion that Steve would have to move in if he didn't want to end up in the streets quick. Or at least, Jim came to that conclusion quickly enough. Steve on the other hand, had battled the idea with everything he had, up until two days ago, when someone rang Jim's bell and he opened the door to the sad sight of Steve Rogers, shoulders down and a shiner purpling on his left cheekbone. 

_ "I need a place to stay," _ had been his greeting and Jim hadn't so much as lifted an eyebrow when he was already sidestepping to let the other man in. 

Something inside him pounded and dropped and pounded and dropped and he couldn't tell if it was his stomach or his heart but seeing Steve walk into his home, however small and scared his steps had been, it made joy bloom inside Jim's mind. He couldn't help it, no matter how much he empathized with Steve's situation; he was drawn to the man and having him get settled inside his space? It was getting pretty close to blowing his damn mind.

The last two nights had been quiet, with Steve setting a definite camp on the couch, huddled in on himself and trying to be polite no matter the right fear that crippled him, Jim could tell. It broke his heart but he gave Steve his space. Coming home now, Jim doesn't know what to expect, how he's going to find Steve this time. 

He'd seemed a little better in the morning, even giving Jim something that  _ almost _ qualified as a smile before he left for work. Progress? Maybe, but Jim couldn't help being wary. It seemed for every step Steve took closer to him, he took two steps backward not a minute later. 

Pushing the door of his house open now proves Jim is right in a matter of seconds - he can hear broken sobs echoing from somewhere in the direction of the living room. 

He finds Steve in a ball on the floor behind the couch. 

"Steve?" Jim makes his voice softer and lower than it normally is on purpose, the way Steve's shoulders hunch up but relax on the next sob shows it works, if only a little. 

He crouches next to Steve, thankful he oiled his braces the very morning, and extends a hand to pet Steve's hair gently. He finds it moist at the temples, knotted in multiple places in the longer strands. 

Steve still won't look at him and Jim's growing desperate, the dom inside of him yearning to care for Steve in ways he's not ready for yet but Jim thinks there are some things he can still try. He takes a deep breath and makes up his mind. 

"Sweetheart? Can you look at me?" 

The way Steve jolts at the pet name doesn't escape nor surprise Jim, but Steve looks up anyway so he counts it as a win. 

His eyes are filled with tears that spill and spill and spill, the blue of them a pool that tugs at Jim's knees until they wobble and he's sat on his haunches and reaching for Steve. Maybe it's a little too fast and it scares Steve at first, but then Jim's got his arms around the man and he squeezes and rocks them slowly. 

"You're okay, sweetheart, you're okay. I'll never hurt you, you're safe, you hear me? You're safe." And Jim keeps whispering it, fierce and reassuring and Steve starts nodding against his neck after what could be ten minutes, or an hour, and neither of them cares. Progress, maybe, and Jim won't let Steve back away from this again, not if it's clear he doesn't want to. 

The way Steve's arms eventually wind around Jim's neck and he cries his endless sorrow down the column of Jim's throat seems to indicate he'd rather not, indeed. 

Their embrace is one of those which melts away rather than needing you to wrench out of them, Jim's hand still soft and massaging on Steve's skull and in his hair when the man’s tension starts melting away, until it’s completely gone and it becomes clear Steve needs sleep. So Jim's hands migrate from Steve's hair to his jaw and from Steve's hip to his shoulder, pushing him gently, until he can look into his eyes, until he can kiss Steve's cheek, daring to - scared shitless it will spook him too hard this time but unable to refrain either way - and Steve's lashes bat, more likely than not without his conscious input. 

"You should rest now, get a good night's sleep, yeah?" Jim says, figuring he'll tell him he has the next few days off in the morning rather than now. 

Jim's knees are starting to feel heavy - not painful per se, he no longer feels them that way - and his braces are jamming into his hips every time he tilts his body to meet Steve's gaze where it now is, almost at the level of the couch. 

"Yeah." Steve seems to shake himself off then, whatever glaze was coating the blue of his eyes dissipating in a way Jim can only describe as forceful: it's Steve making a conscious effort not to let his endorphins and pull hormones take away his willpower. It's a beautiful show of strength, one that makes Jim's heart pang for Steve - that he has to do that is so far removed from the idea Jim has of the happiness and care submissives deserve - but also awes him. Not many people can resist their pull once it settles, be it submissives  _ or _ dominants. 

"I have a guest room." Jim says then, and continues before Steve can put enough words together to refuse his offer, "I'd like you to have it. It doesn't have to mean anything. My couch is only as good as it can be." 

Steve watches Jim's face. He's looking for something, scanning the minute motions of Jim's eyes, and the muscles of his jaw and brow as Jim frowns softly. 

"Please?" Jim finally pleads.

Steve's eyes display his shock more than he probably wants them to, and that too, puts a damper on any kind of good mood Jim had thought he might be allowed today. That the very idea of Jim being considerate of his wishes confuses Steve that much enrages him, but Jim reins that in. Can't risk transmitting mixed signals. His own pull is strong in this moment, it makes Jim's fingers tingle in a way that's more distracting than pleasing.

He can't and won't act on it, but his army training's made it easy for him to not listen to that part of his brain when he shouldn't a long time ago. 

When there is still no answer from Steve and Jim's pretty sure minutes have passed, he gets up, brushes a finger over Steve's shoulder as softly as he can make it and sighs. He doesn't know exactly how he feels but he knows what he wants. He also knows Steve is far from being in the same place he is and Jim decides they both need to sleep. Nothing will get resolved at this hour and this state of fatigue anyway. 

"I'm going to bed myself, the guest bedroom is on the opposite side of the apartment, down the hall to the bathroom you've been using. Your call, ok?" 

Steve's biting his lip when he looks up from Jim's braces to his eyes, blinking the remnants of tears before he takes a big breath. It looks like it takes all of his strength and courage to ask but he does, "Why are you doing this?" 

Jim was expecting that, has been expecting that question ever since he asked Steve to consider coming here in the first place. 

"There's no one answer to that question Steve. But the shortest one? Because I want to." Jim holds Steve's gaze a few seconds longer, trying to see if his words imprint in any way before he nods more frankly, "Good night, Steve." 

**~*~*~**

Once in his bed Jim can't help turning things over and over in his head. He's been doing that for the better part of the last two weeks and still hasn't come up with a way to explain Steve's behavior that doesn't make his gut clench and his jaw set till it feels like his teeth will turn to ash if he doesn't force it open with a wrench. He knows it's not healthy, none of it is, or not yet, but Steve isn't healthy either, and as a result Jim can't be either - that's in his nature, and more than that, Steve's meant too much to him for too long. Years have passed, a literal decade really, and that hasn't changed, it probably never will - Tony would agree. 

Jim smiles, his first small try at a smile in a while, thinking about what Tony would, or will, say about this. He's always known, the jackass. He knew this would probably happen some day, and Jim has refused to believe him for the longest time, has refused to let himself hope even when he saw Steve again at the shelter two weeks ago, for the first time in exactly thirteen years. It couldn't be true, and even if it was, he certainly couldn't get this lucky as to get a second shot at being brave, at being with Steve the way they should have been all these years. 

**~*~*~**

**Two weeks prior**

He's been on the phone with Tony up until the moment he has to come out of the VA-appointed car, routine stop at the Sub Shelter Facilities down in Brooklyn. 

"Where's Nat, Tones? Why are you up and calling me at 9am on a Saturday?" 

Tony laughs, nervously, Jim can always tell, and brushes his question off. Jim doesn't get time to get to the bottom of it though, because his coworker has parked in front of the address he's given him, ready for Jim to go in. 

"Gotta go, talk to you later ok? And for goodness' sake talk to Natasha about whatever it is that's bothering you." 

Jim's been here before, but it's been literal years and his memory of it wasn't quite as dingy as the place appears to him right now. The outside paint is peeling in more places than the ones it's holding, the signs that serve to designate the place as a shelter that is no longer working, its big neon letters faded and even broken in places. Jim feels his face set in place, turning stony the more steps he takes towards the doors. 

There's a man standing right by the entryway. That it’s not a submissive is pretty clear in the way he holds himself, feet apart and shoulders squared, looking grim and mean - not the kind of dominant Jim likes to be around nor the kind he ever wants to be. 

This is starting off promisingly. 

Jim does his best not to show his annoyance right away. Maybe things will look up inside? He can always hope - Stark optimism that. Can't spend so many years with someone and not have their core traits rub off on you in places. 

"VA detachment, here for inspection." Jim says to the man - the name tag says 'Thanos' and frankly, what the fuck kind of name is that?

The man nods and grunts something but merciful lord, he does not follow Jim inside but simply lets him pass instead. 

The hallway is as gray and unwelcoming as the façade had Jim expecting it, and it doesn't get any better as he gets deeper into the facility. It's not the first time he's been to a place like this - a shelter that resembles a prison rather than a home for the less fortunate - but it makes his hands ball into fists instantly. 

By the time Jim's made his way to the kitchens, he has his phone in hand and he's dialing his superiors - no way he's going to let the dozens of infractions to the shelter regulations he's already seen pass. 

The phone's rung thrice already when he hears the telltale music that tells him he's being put on hold and Jim sighs. This job is frustrating more times than he can count, but days like these are the worst. He watches the few scattered residents milling about as he waits. Most of them look like they need a shower, and most importantly, a care Jim's dominant nature is itching to provide. It makes his collar feel too stiff around his neck, the fabric of his shirt itchy. Even the waistband of his braces feels like it's binding his stomach tight enough to choke him, but what he sees next is what does it. 

He's coughing in shock when the ambiance music finally stops playing on the line and a voice pipes in to ask him what she can do for him. 

"Nothing. I'll call you back." Jim manages to get the words out by sheer strength of character. Nothing could have prepared him for this.

He takes a few steps deeper into the kitchen, to the left of a bench and to the right of a large stained stainless steel fridge, blinking rapidly. There's no mistake-- "Steve? Steve Rogers is it really you?"

As monumental to Rhodey as this is, no one around them stops to look or listen to what comes next, they just keep going about their business. Steve looks up from where he's chopping vegetables with what seems to be a really dull knife to squint at Jim. Jim watches as Steve's eyes widen, and his mouth opens in shock. Until he drops his knife and stumbles backward. 

"Jim?" His voice is soft, so small, his eyes dart around the place and it's only then that Jim sees that Steve - because it really fucking is him, oh God - is trembling from head-to-toe and there's a large bruise on the side of his neck. 

Jim sees the way Steve flinches but he can't help it, can't keep the growl that leaves his lips in when his brain registers the color of Steve's skin there. 

Memories flash in his mind, of a child that was almost a man but not really, not yet, not ready, of a boy who was Jim's first friend in the neighborhood, of a bright blue gaze who was always listening to Jim's stories even when they were the most nerdy, dreamy ones he could tell. Jim has to mentally force himself back into the moment, to grasp the very reality of Steve being here, right in front of him. 

He's angry, and Steve seems scared, and takes a step back just as Jim takes one forward. Jim frowns.

"It's me, man?" 

Steve shakes his head, fast and hard and trembling still. 

"I can't… you can't be here… you have to leave… Doms aren't allowed here anyway." Steve finally looks up from his fists into Jim's eyes, and his gaze is watered down by tears.

"I'm here for work, I work for the VA and they own the shelters. I'm here to check if regulations are being followed, and I can already tell they're not around here, am I right?" Jim tries to speak as low and soothing as he can make his voice sound, extending a gentle hand into the four feet of distance between them. Steve doesn't take his hand, and doesn't respond either. The blonde man sobs instead, and immediately covers his mouth to dull his sounds as he looks behind Jim like he's making sure no one heard him. 

"Steve?" Jim tries again, his heart soaring when the man hugs himself - a typical soothing handle on his own sides - but he stays put. 

Steve shakes his head again. 

"Please…" 

And Jim understands, 'please, leave...' so he nods. 

He taps his breast pocket until he finds his card and puts it on the countertop that separates them. Then he takes a pen out of his pocket and scribbles on the card as fast as he can. 

"I'm leaving, alright? But this is my card, there's my number, and my address on it, and I want you to use both. Can you… can you just look at me, please?" 

Jim waits, but it only takes a few seconds, the shock in Steve's eyes incomprehensible to him - it's only after, when he's out and back into the car getting ready to report to his superior about the hundreds of fuck-ups he's seen in under ten minutes, that Jim realizes the surprise in Steve's eyes appeared when he'd said please, like that wasn't something completely normal, something he was due. It makes Jim seethe with rage. 

"I want you to use both, and remember my door is open, no matter what hour, day or night, or reason."

"You don't get to tell me what you want." Steve bites and Jim holds his hand out in a universal sign of surrender. 

"You're right," Jim looks at Steve, his eyes once again scanning over his large bruise involuntarily, "but it's been 13 years since I've seen you Steve, and finding you now, and not ever seeing you again? And knowing you're here, in this shithole?" Jim bites his lip, rubs his face, sighs. "Not my place, I know, but think about it. I could beg, but I have a feeling you wouldn't like that either, so I'm out of here now." 

One last, long look into each other's eyes, Steve's wet and Jim's on fire, and Jim turns back like Steve asked him, and leaves. 

He can only hope Steve will show up now.

**~*~*~**

Jim falls asleep with a frown between his brows that battles with the small smile that tugs at his lips, and for the first time in a long time, he doesn't think about the dull throbbing of his legs. His head is full of Steve, and the promises he wants to make, and the care he'd put into it, and the scared, timid way Steve is slowly settling into the house. Safe, even if he can't convince himself of that just yet. Warm, even if his body hasn't caught on with that just yet. Cherished, even if Jim keeps his distance for now. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional chapter warnings in the end notes 😘

**~*~*~**

**Steve**

**A Week Later**

The first thing Steve notices is how loud the apartment is compared to what he's gotten used to. He's learned to expect the front door to make this small, swishing noise as the door sealer strips slide over the hardwood floors. He's come to expect the little clicking sound of the door handle as he releases it to gently push the door open wider with his shoulder. He can practically picture the difference between the dullness of his footsteps on the landing and the clacking of his soles on the wood. 

None of it can be heard just now, or at least he doesn't, not when his neck immediately feels pulled down. Even in the entryway, where Steve can tell the men are in the kitchen on the other side of the apartment, the pheromones that fly around and thicken the air make him choke. He knows they're doms like he knows his name and his mother's eye color. He knows he needs out like he knows the number of tiles on the ceiling above his shitty bed back at the shelter. But he can't turn around, he's got nowhere to go, nowhere he feels as tentatively safe as he's felt since he took Jim up on his offer and fled Thanos' grip and any of his dom friends. 

No matter how proud he is that he's managed to spit right on his nose - aiming for the head, always - before he left, Steve can still feel his lungs burn from the run he'd made for it after. There's no going back. Plus, if he was in any condition to think it through other than through the black-and-white view of his survival instinct, he'd recognize he doesn't want to leave. 

He doesn't know what staying means, he doesn't know what Jim expects of him, and that alone makes him itch at night, when it's dark and silent and he's alone again, but he won't leave. 

Careful on his feet, Steve takes off his shoes as silently as he can, even though it's pretty clear they won't hear him with how loud one of them is laughing - Steve brushes away his stray appreciation of the fact that Jim's laugh sounds nothing like this. He doesn't really know that, apart from that time when he overheard him on the phone with someone in his office two doors down from Steve's room - that's still weird - he hasn't heard him laugh. 

He's seen him smile though. He's seen plenty of that, and different ones, too, like the one he has when he's looking at Steve and he's glad Steve isn't looking away; or when Steve actually manages to answer him; or when he wakes up and finds Steve trying to force himself to eat breakfast, those are all different. But Steve can't let himself have that. Can't even let himself have the satisfaction of knowing those smiles. 

The short reprieve his mind granted him is over when he hears the three men's chair squick on the tiles of the kitchen, and heavy footsteps follow. He has to hide. Can't stay here, with his shoes in his hand and his eyes wide with fear and cold sweat already starting to coat his back and his mind racing and--- 

He needs out of this room. 

Steve gulps in as much air as he can, as silently as he can. He moves, finally, unrooting his feet from the floor to work his way to the hallway that leads to both bedrooms and Jim's office. Somehow, Steve is thankful for the darkness of the long path to his room. He's thankful there isn't anything to come slap him in the face in the middle of what he can't bring himself to call a panic attack, but is one nonetheless. 

His shoes almost fall out of his hands as he pushes the door closed with his back. He's tempted to let himself slide down, to sit right there against the door. But no matter how strong the pull is, no matter how much his body wants him to kneel, he can't do it here, can't let his pull have him until he's safe, until no one can see him or know where he is. 

It's an illusion. The apartment isn't that big. It will be easy to find him. But Steve still drags himself through the room, grabs the corner of the fleece blanket on top of the bed and flees to the adjacent bathroom. 

The door is closed, and locked, and the light is out, and it's the safest Steve can make the room feel, the most comfortable way to let go as much as he'll allow himself. 

He climbs into the tub, he drags the curtain back around to close it, he sits and hides himself under his blanket, keeping just one corner of it in his hand to rub against the back of his neck. 

As hard as he tries, he can't ignore the scars there. 

As much as he wishes it wasn't true, Steve feels crippled as he tries to remember how to breathe. 

As easy as it would be, letting go is not an option. 

Maybe he should have told Jim. Told him something that would have made him not invite his friends. 

Steve snorts at himself, only then realizing he's crying - he would never. Jim's apartment means Jim's rules. Jim's apartment means Jim's friends are welcome and Steve should fucking shut up and-- 

It's too hard. Too hard to breathe. Too hard to focus on it even with all the senses he's managed to dull by being in here in complete darkness with the sole softness of the blanket as his anchor to the world. It's still too hard. 

His lungs are wheezing like they did when he was a sick kid, when his mom would make him soup and Jim's mom would make him drink all the tea she had - _'for your sore throat little man, drink'_ \- when Jim would hold his hand, and tell him they would never have to be apart. 

What a fucking joke. What a fucking load of bullshit kids can promise each other. 

How he'd wanted to believe it, to believe him. All for nothing. Had to move, had to follow Mom's job where it took them, had to say goodbye to the one true... the one true friend Steve had ever had. 

It had been the beginning of his nightmares at night, and then, only a few months later, when his designation had presented itself, it had been the beginning of his nightmare, period. 

Being a sub in a world dominated solely by greedy, power-hungry, abuse-lenient Doms was hell on earth, and then some. And Steve was scratching at his neck through the blanket before he knew it, but he couldn't make himself stop. 

He didn't know how long he stayed there, didn't know how much his back hurt and his ass froze on the tub's ceramic, didn't know how he wasn't unconscious with how little oxygen he managed to take in. Until there was noise right next to him and he jolted under the blanket. 

He hadn't heard. Not the steps in the hallway, not the bedroom door open, not the lock of the bathroom coming off. He hadn't heard anything, and before a hand came to rest, lightly, so lightly, on his shoulder, Steve hadn't realized he was laying on his side in the tub, still covered by the blanket. 

Everything is fuzzy, and difficult. His eyes are picking up rays of soft light through the thread of the blanket but he isn't aware enough yet to be thankful Jim hasn't turned on the overhead light, or to be pissed he's entered the bathroom at all. 

"Steve?" The voice isn't clear like it normally is, and Steve can't decide which part is his brain fucking with him, and which part is Jim being affected by this whole mess, but he knows it's him, the touch he does recognize, from the hug the week before. "Steve, can you look at me? Or just show me your face?" 

Steve wants to shake his head, he wants to, he wants to stay hidden here forever, he wants to tell Jim to leave. He's shaking, his rational brain knows he is, he always does when panic takes over. But no words come out, and he doesn't manage to move at all. A pitiful, sad whine is all that comes out of his throat and he thinks Jim will take the blanket away, that's it. His only valued possession coming into this place, is going to be taken away from him, that's gotta be it. 

It isn't. 

"You'll come out of here, when you're ready to come out, ok? I'm not taking you out, and I'm going to take my hand off your shoulder now. I'm going to sit right at the foot of the tub, and put my hand on the edge if you want it, if you don't, it will just stay here and that's ok." 

Steve can faintly hear the man doing exactly as he said, the small squeaking of his braces a sound Steve has grown familiar with in a way that surprises him - it helps his breathing calm down just a bit. And then Jim's watch scratches the edge of the tub, and Steve knows he's doing the last thing, too - he's giving him his hand to hold onto should he want it. 

Steve wants it. Sub Steve does, he craves it. Steve isn't so sure he hates it. 

They stay like this a long, long time. Or at least Steve's brain thinks it's a long time, maybe it isn't - being safe like he's been for the past week and a half has already started to weigh on his guard somehow. He doesn't know what to do, his brain feels all fuzzy and not in the good way. It feels like he can't find his way out, like everything is cloudy and muddy, and yet calls his name, in all directions. 

He doesn't realize he's doing it, but he doesn't regret it either. With a few tries, a few pushes against the fleece tightly wrapped around his side, Steve frees one of his hands, and blindly grabs Jim's. 

Warmth explodes all over his palm, tingles of electricity almost too harsh spark from his nails to his elbow. He exhales loudly enough to hear it himself. Jim doesn't do anything, doesn't move a finger, just lets him have his hand. 

There's no noise apart from that of their combined breathing. No more noise at all. The loud voices and the boisterous, intimidating laugh are gone, and Jim's skin is soft under the pads of his fingers. 

Steve peeks out then, just one eye, which he doesn't even keep open very long. It's enough. He saw how Jim isn't even facing him, he's sitting with his side leaning against the tub and his hand dangling off its edge, silent and immobile. It makes Steve feel better. It makes him feel braver. 

He looks again, with both eyes then, and frowns when he sees the blood under his nails. The blanket comes off his nose and down to his chest. 

Steve coughs. Jim looks at him, sees him staring at his own hand. 

"You scratched your neck pretty bad," he says, and gestures to his own neck. 

Steve tries to look down but he can't see anything. He touches the back of his neck with his free hand, careful, and finds his fingers come out stained a dirty red of blood that's almost dry, of scars that are closing back. Well. 

He's pretty used to that by now. 

"Do you want to come out of here now?" Jim asks, and when Steve looks at him, really looks at him for the first time since the night before, he sees no pressure, no annoyance, none of the maliciousness he's seen so many times before on a Dom's face. He sees concern. 

He thinks he wants to wave it off angrily. But he doesn't actually want that, and it's not just his stupid sub brain talking this time. He's not ready just yet though. Same as he doesn't think he can talk right now, so Steve does the next best thing, he holds up his free hand and shows five fingers. 

And Jim understands. "5 more minutes?" 

Steve nods, once. 

"Ok, ok, sunshine." 

**~*~*~**

Steve is almost asleep by the time Jim talks again, sitting on the edge of Steve's bed, on the side opposite Steve. He's almost had to carry him there - those braces sure are something - because Steve was so out of it after what turned out to be three hours in the tub. Now that he's got his head on a pillow and Jim's gently cleaned and disinfected his neck and hands though, it's hard to concentrate on the words. But he's glad he manages. 

"I'm sorry I let my friends in here without telling you. It wasn't planned and I really didn't know it would make you feel like this but I think I understand more now, and I hope you can forgive me for putting you in this situation."

Jim stops for a minute, then puts one of his hand in the middle of the bed between them. Again, he leaves the choice to take it up to Steve, and Steve feels his heart flutter a little bit. He likes that, but he still doesn't reach for Jim's hand. He's allowed not to, he thinks.

"I didn't mean to scare you. I want you to feel safe here, because you are. Nothing can happen to you here. Not from anyone or anything, and certainly not from me. Tomorrow… Tomorrow I'll ask you a question, and you'll be free to tell me to fuck off, or to say yes. You're always free to tell me to fuck off."

He stops again, searches for Steve's gaze and Steve looks him in the eye, too tired to try and guess what Jim is talking about. He just wants to believe the gentle words he's saying. He just wants to--

"I'll let you rest now." Jim prepares to get up, turning again so he's facing the door before he can get up. 

But Steve catches his hand before he does. 

"Thank you," he whispers in the muffling comfort of his pillow. Then he squeezes Jim's hand, so weakly he's not sure the man can even feel it, and lets go. 

"Good night, Steve."

It doesn't take three blinks until Steve is sleeping, drooling on his pillow and even snoring softly from the exhaustion. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter contains a long panic attack triggered by the presence of Doms other than Jim, references to past abuse (not graphic), scratching of scars that lead to mild bleeding (not described until Steve realizes it) and self-loathing.  
> Be safe 😘
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! More details and final notes at the end! Thank you for being here 😘

**~*~*~**

**Jim**

**Two Weeks Later**

"Show me your hands, tell me your safewords, and your signs, and tell me if you still want this." Jim makes sure Steve is looking him in the eye when he says this, he also made sure Steve was standing when he started - equal footing, nothing but safe, equal stances for this discussion before anything happens, as a condition for anything happening after Steve answers. 

Steve's eyes are shifty, the muscles in his shoulders coiled and the whole of him speaking of nerves, of both a snake ready to strike, and a mouse ready to jolt at the first hint of danger. It's heartbreaking, but it also shows Jim his suggestion isn't coming out of nowhere. That's exactly what ignoring one's pull for too long looks like, a body and a mind at war with each other, competing needs trying for the ascent, and crumbling in vain. 

Biology is not mysterious, it is deadly precise and nothing Steve can do will ever erase his need to submit, and nothing Jim can do will ever make his pulsions to care for someone vanish. Both men are shaking slightly, but Jim's gaze doesn't waver as Steve studies his face for an answer to a question he won't ask, watching his face for every blink and breath. Steve's own eyes are wide open in a slightly manic look. Jim knows how hard he's trying, and he wants to help him, he wants to help him so bad, but he'll let him come to a decision on his own. 

He nods at him to signal he's about to move, and steps to the side to get to the couch, his legs killing him when they shouldn't. He keeps his sigh for himself once he's seated, but damn that feels good. 

Jim's hands are perfectly steady on his knees, no matter how much stress he can feel coming off of Steve in waves. He can't let it affect him, or at least not visibly, because it definitely does, but not the way Steve probably expects it to. It makes Jim want to get up and carry Steve to the couch to have him rest his head on his lap, pet his hair and tell him everything will be ok, steal him away from the harsh life he's lived that's led him here now. 

Jim just looks at Steve, not necessarily in the eye, but his shoulders, or his hands, not his neck, or his knees, or anything below the belt that aren't his feet really. He waits. And then, just as he's looking at the way Steve's hands are balled at his sides, Steve starts moving them and talking all at once. 

"Green, Cap," an 'O' with his thumb and forefinger.

"Yellow, Sunshine," a full fist with the thumb tucked in below the rest of his fingers. 

"Red, Flight," the fist starts tapping on his thigh, a ghost of a punch. 

Jim nods, at every word, and at every motion, then only does he look at Steve's face again. He repeats the words, does his signs, and waits for Steve to nod in confirmation. 

"I want you to kneel, I want you to put your arms behind your back, chin up, and breathe." Jim says, still sitting with his back flush to the cushions, watching as Steve's eyes widen a little, and his breathing picks up a little, and his hands flex. "In your own time, no rush, and safewords and signs are effective at any point." 

It takes a few minutes. They don't feel long somehow, Jim is too concentrated, too into the moment, into making sure Steve feels the serenity Jim is bathing in.

It's Jim's domination style, has always been and will always be. He's never been interested in coercion, thinks people who are shouldn't be allowed within a 2-mile radius of any sub whatsoever. He's never had to use strength either, except when it was asked of him, when his partners needed him to do so. But he's always been more into servicing and caretaking than he's been into impact and discipline play, one of the many reasons why Tony couldn't be fully satisfied with him and that was perfectly fine - it was easy for Jim to imagine Natasha was far more efficient in that department that he ever could be. 

This isn't about Jim though, not about his likes, or needs, or desires. It's about unfurling the monster of stress and trauma that roars inside Steve's head, that made him curl up in Jim's guest bath a little under a week ago. Jim's been scratching at it, both voluntarily and clumsily, and he knows it needs out, he knows Steve, both in and out of his headspace, needs it out and down. 

Slowly, shifting on his socked feet and gazing fleetingly between Jim's knees and the coffee table, Steve takes a step forward. He doesn't put himself right in front of Jim, but chooses to stop beside the table, showing more of his profile than his front to Jim - showing him part of his hands as he starts getting down on his knees. More shifting around, more pulling at the ankles of his sweatpants and tugging on the hem of his white tank top, and Steve puts his arms behind his back, holding his hands together with his fingers linked tightly - Jim can see how white his knuckles must be in the way his forearms bulge and the slight blue veins of his biceps flash. 

That won't do. 

"Good job, Steve," Jim says anyway, "Very good job." 

He waits a little, an idea coming to him but he doesn't want to get up again too quickly, doesn't want to spook Steve. 

"Chin up, sunshine, chin up for me, please," Jim asks then, seeing how Steve is staring - glaring at his knees. 

The scared look in Steve's eyes is balanced by the squaring of his jaw, everything in him taut and ready to pounce or crumble in ashes - it's devastating, and it makes Jim even more eager to help him, his hands would shake with it if he hadn't mastered a degree of stoicism necessary to keep a sub as volatile and anxious as Tony calm. 

Jim stays with him like this, watching Steve raise his chin as much as he can, which isn't much but is getting better with every minute that passes. 

"You're doing great, now breathe Steve, slow and deep, you can do it," Jim massages his thighs absentmindedly, still watching for every little sign that Steve isn't doing good. He seems ok for now, or, as ok as he'll feel until he manages to let go, which, given what Jim thinks he's understood of Steve's life so far won't happen today. See the very blatant evidence of that that he's gathered in the bruises he's seen fading on his neck and arms and even his hip that one time Steve bent for the cereals in the last cupboard of the kitchen. 

To serve as example, Jim starts exaggerating his own breathing, inhaling long, exhaling loud, and repeat. He sets camp in Steve's stormy blue eyes, keeps their gazes linked like a thread courses between them and breathes, and smiles almost imperceptibly when Steve starts imitating him - even if Jim can see how unsettling his barely there smile is for Steve, baby steps. 

"That's good, that's really good, Steve," Jim says, his voice as soft as he'll keep it throughout this scene. 

Steve's back is still tense, and his shoulders are still too high up his neck, his tank top riding up his stomach a little because of it in a way that seems to make Steve want to unclasp his hands from his back to put it back. Jim has a better idea. 

"I'm going to get up now, and I'm going to leave the room, for a very little time," Jim starts, sees the alarm flash through Steve's face, raises a placating hand between them as gently as he can, "While I'm gone, I want you to squeeze your hands every time you exhale, can you do that?" 

Jim illustrates his demand by joining his own hand in the air, and breathing in and out as slowly and deeply as he demonstrated a minute ago, squeezing his joined hands with every gush of air that leaves his mouth. 

"Can you do that? Answer me, Steve, please," Jim pushes.

He studies Steve's face as he keeps breathing and squeezing his hands for him, until Steve nods. 

"With words, sunshine, I need a word, or a color, please," Jim asks again. 

Steve visibly gulps. His mouth opens and closes and he forgets to breathe for a few seconds. He gets there, though.

"Cap," he whispers.

Jim can tell this has been tremendously difficult. He can also tell keeping their eye contact is taking a lot more strength from Steve than it ever should, so he cuts it short. 

"Good boy," he tells him, "Remember, breathe in, breathe out, squeeze, you got this."

As hard as it is, Jim doesn't touch Steve when he passes him on his way back to his bedroom. He doesn't pet his hair, or brush fingers down his cheek, or rub his shoulder, he just walks by. 

He makes it quick. A few strides take him to his bedroom, a few more take him to his closet - the one he barely ever opens anymore - and as little motions as he can go into opening the door and unzipping the suit that hangs there. He smiles as he sees his old uniform revealed, and to his own surprise, he's not even bitter, he's made his peace with this part of his life being over. 

It's easy to find what he's looking for. It's even easier to go back to Steve when all of his instincts are shouting at him to do exactly that. 

Jim stops a few feet from Steve, he doesn't want to tower over him.

"Steve?" Jim prods when Steve is obviously having trouble looking at anything but the carpet. His chin is still up, though, but Jim doesn't think it's because he wants to obey, the way his arms shake as he keeps squeezing his hands in time with his breathing, far from having calmed him, tells Jim a lot more thoughts are going through the man's mind, and probably not the nicest ones. 

"Steve, look at me, please," Jim tries again, his voice level and as low as he can make it without whispering. 

It works. Steve snaps out of his staring at the void and blinks up at him. 

"Thank you," Jim says, and gives it time to sink in between them before he starts again. "I want to give you something. It's very dear to me and I would like you to hang onto it while we do this." 

Steve's eyes take on a curious light Jim finds he likes a lot. It reminds him of the many many times the two of them used to go on adventures together in the neighborhood, worrying their mothers crazy with how late they came back when imagination swept them off their feet and the streets became hot waters and their sticks became swords and pirates didn't see them coming. He had been in love with Steve then, as much as pre-teen can be. He would have done anything for him and he didn't know what it meant, he hadn't known what that tugging feeling inside him was every time Steve so much as scraped his knees, or coughed, or didn't sleep well. 

He knows now. He's known for years. 

It's the reason why none of his past relationships have worked. 

None of them were Steve. 

And that's overwhelming, and Jim isn't sure it's fair to Steve not to be open with him about it, but he also knows how terrified he would be if he were to tell him anything of the sort in the state he's in. And, unlike the assholes that have had their hands near Steve - Jim would gladly help their faces meet a wall - Jim was raised right. He was raised to respect all subs, and male subs, who have it the toughest in this world, even more. 

After a little while spent looking into Steve's eyes for his cue that he's ready Jim takes two more steps towards him, and then watches Steve gasp when he goes down to his knees as well, a feet of distance between them. 

First, Jim takes the blanket he folded under his arm as an afterthought, only seeing it laid on Steve's bed through the ajar door as he got out of his own bedroom. Steve's eyes relax at the corners as soon as he registers the soft blue fabric in Jim's hands. 

"That's not it," Jim feels the need to specify, "I just thought you might like something a little warmer, yes?" 

Steve nods right away this time, twice and fast. 

"Thank you," he whispers, and then, biting his cheeks and blushing a rough red, he adds a timid, "Sir". 

Jim shakes his head, smiling at Steve, "Don't force yourself to call me that." He whispers, "When you do call me that, if you do, I want you to want it, do you understand?" 

Steve keeps his eyes wide open, to stave off tears Jim realizes, frowning. 

"Steve?"

"I…" he hiccups a little, "I just thought… I thought… they always wanted… they…" 

"Hey, hey, hey," Jim lets the blanket fall between them, "look at me, it's ok," Jim can't help it then, he puts both his hands on Steve's cheeks, still keeping his touch as gentle as the emotion that takes over him allows and keeps their eyes locked together. "Breathe for me, in, and out, and squeeze, come on, four times for me, Steve." 

And they do it together, one, two, three, four times, in sync, quietly, soothingly.

"None of what these other men wanted will be what I want, that's the first thing, and it's scary, I know it is. But the second thing is, for now, I don't want you to worry about what I want," Jim brings their foreheads together, lets Steve close his eyes, finally, and feels shiver. "Can I put the blanket on your lap?" 

Steve still hasn't unclasped his hands. His arms are frozen in position and his whole body is rigid save for his lips, parted around gulps of air that plow their way in and crawl their way out. Jim lets go of Steve's cheeks, dares brush them down the sides of his neck to massage Steve's shoulders and nods against his forehead when Steve whispers the faintest of consents. 

Jim lets go of Steve with one last gentle squeeze to his shoulders before he picks up the blanket. And then mentally slaps himself. He should have stopped at the first hiccup. 

"Steve? You still with me?"

Steve blinks back tears as he looks up, his face so miserable Jim wants to take him and hide him away forever in the safe spot between his arms and that blanket. 

"I am," he croaks out eventually. 

"How does lying down in the couch sound right now?" Jim asks. 

Steve's eyes fleet away to the couch, and back to the blue fleece that peeks out between Jim's loose fingers. 

"Good… sounds good." His voice is a little slurred, and his cheeks a deep red against the paleness of his everything else, and Jim nods. 

"Okay then. Will you let me help you get there?" 

"Please." 

**~*~*~**

“I know, Tones,” Jim sighs into the phone. “He’s worth it, though, I can just feel it.” 

Jim hears the sigh on the other end of the line and knows what Tony is thinking, of course he does. Jim has a habit of picking up strays - not like 14-year-old Tony was anything else either, and that's why he thinks he's so well-placed to talk about it. Except Steve is in more pain than the other subs Jim has worked with, let alone tried to have a relationship with. There is a reason he's in regulation and it has nothing to do with a liking for paperwork. 

“As long as you’re careful,  _ sir _ ."

“Well,” Jim took a breath, “what if I don’t want to be with him?”

And he truly doesn't. Not when it comes to his own feelings and his involvement in whatever shape or form Steve and himself will take. There's history there, history that's marred by a lifetime of bad experiences for Steve that, Jim understands more and more, aren't just flings that didn't work out, or tinder swipes that didn't show. He's ready for all of it though. Ready to shield Steve, ready to give him the space he needs and the warmth he craves and whatever metal he wants his hands to be made of when it rests on the back of his neck, if it ever does - ducklings are made of iron, right? 

His decision was made that first day when he pushed through the shelter's kitchens and saw it really was Steve. He knows it, and even Tony knows it. And it's only clearer when Jim's phonecall-pacing leads him back to the threshold of the living-room. 

He can see Steve there, laying on the couch, fast asleep and looking more peaceful than he's dared to look around Jim at all since he arrived. His blanket is stuck to him like a second skin, and the one hand that can be seen, resting right next to his face on the pillow Jim gave him, well… it's clutching Jim's old flight cap. It's the last one Jim has, and one of his dearest memories of his life long gone, his life as a pilot of the nation. Seeing its deep blue folded in Steve's fingers does things to Jim, and he doesn't know how long he stays silent on the phone, but everything makes sense now. 

He’ll fight for Steve Rogers for as long as Steve chooses Jim. 

Jim knows the work ahead of him, knows that Steve had no idea choice is allowed in this world, has no idea he has the power to walk away. But, come hell or high water, Jim is going to teach him that he has that, and so much more - even if it means breaking his own heart as Steve does walk away. 

Jim shakes his head. He's kneeling in the sand, too. Shaky, grainy ground that inspires anything but stability when you sink into it, and yet turns hard and perfectly steady as you rest your calves against it.  __

_ Just love him as though it’s forever.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warnings: sub drop/bad reaction to an attempt at going down. References to past abuse. 
> 
> Soooo, dunno if you've noticed but 4 chapters became 3, and this fic became the first part of a series, which will likely end up having around 3 parts, because my brain is coming up with more and more things to add, and I can't decently make them happen in two chapters. I therefore hope I'll see you guys around for the next part as well, thank you for reading this one and I hope you enjoy this tentative ending to the 1st part 😘😘😘

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you had a good time reading this first chapter! Next chapter drops tomorrow, and the last two will post on Saturday :)  
> If you loved the art as much as I did, don't forget to give a shoutout to thewaythatwerust!  
> Thank you for reading 😘


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